Death Row - Mark Pearson [73]
‘And how do you reckon that?’ he asked.
‘Henson is a Scandinavian name, isn’t it?’ Henson said.
Bennett shook his head, bemused. ‘Yeah – must be true, then.’
There were a number of display cases in the room and the detective inspector crossed the red carpet to look at them. Some with paperwork, others with more photos, one had a hat with a card reading Early 1932 Schutzstaffel/SS Cap with Death’s Head and Eagle. In the long display case under the flag was a long dress sword, sitting slightly out of its groove, a pair of brass knuckledusters and a knife-shaped depression in the red velvet lining of the case. Danny Vine came into the room. Bennett threw him a questioning look but he shook his head. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he said, as he looked around the room. ‘Not only does the fat frig look like Goebbels, he thinks he bloody is him.’
‘Your day will come, Sambo,’ said Henson, not even attempting to hide the curl to his lip as he said it.
‘Sambo?’ replied the constable, flashing a wide grin. ‘How delightfully retro.’
‘You can put a monkey in a suit and train it to dance for a banana. Doesn’t make him a human. Just a monkey in a suit—’
‘Shut your fucking mouth, Henson!’ said Bennett, cutting him short. ‘Where’s the knife that’s missing from this cabinet?’
Henson shrugged, his jowls wobbling but with a definite sheen of sweat on them now.
‘I bought the case as a piece. There never was a knife in it.’
‘And where’s your son? Where’s Matt?’
The portly man shrugged again. ‘He’s free to come and go as he pleases.’
‘Not any more.’
‘Right, well, do you two want to fuck off now?’ Henson looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got an appointment with a pint of lager, if that’s all the same to you.’
Bennett shook his head. ‘Well, it’s not all the same to me. You’re coming down the nick. We can discuss things a bit more down there.’
‘On what charge?’
Bennett tapped the back of a knuckle on the glass of the display case.
‘You have some illegal weapons here.’
‘That’s genuine memorabilia.’
‘The sword, maybe,’ Bennett said. ‘But, and I quote, Section 141 of the Criminal Justice Act 1988 dealing with offensive weapons lists among other items, “a band of metal or other hard material worn on one or more fingers, and designed to cause injury”.’ He tapped the display case again. ‘To wit, a knuckleduster.’ He smiled humourlessly. ‘You, my fat friend, are nicked!’
Henson looked at Bennett and across at PC Vine. Then he pushed Bennett, knocking him back against the display cabinet, and charged towards the open doorway. The young constable, however, had the presence of mind to leave a foot strategically placed and the sixteen stone of Adam Henson crashed like a felled log in the corridor beyond, his head slapping against the dividing wall with a sound like a walrus landing on ice.
*
Kate Walker held her index finger up and moved it from left to right. ‘Just follow the finger.’
The large man held up a finger of his own and Kate, ignoring it, jotted down some notes. She turned to the uniformed officer standing in the doorway of the police surgeon’s office. ‘Fit to be interviewed.’
Henson shook his head, an ugly bruise clear on the right-hand side of his swollen head. ‘I want a second opinion.’
‘Okay, my second opinion is that you need to start eating more healthily, do some exercise, lose four or five stone.’
‘You think you’re funny?’
‘No, I think I’m bored looking at you. Take him away, constable.’
The uniform stepped into the room, followed by DI Bennett. Henson stood up and glared down at her. ‘Nobody is getting away with this.’ He looked back at the detective inspector. ‘I have been assaulted.’
‘The incident will be thoroughly investigated.’
Henson snorted dismissively. ‘I have been the victim of a racially based assault and I will get justice.’
Kate smiled despite herself.
Henson stood up. ‘You think that’s funny? You think Enoch Powell’s rivers-of-blood speech